


A Splash of Lace

by bhaer



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol, Canon Era, Gen, Historical Dress, Male Friendship, Shopping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 22:58:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bhaer/pseuds/bhaer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac and Combeferre go dress shopping. Paris falls into chaos. </p><p>An adventure story featuring heroic bravery, vicious thieves, a possible religious cult and some lace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Splash of Lace

The meeting was nearly a disaster.

Les Amis de l’ABC met officially Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Of those three dates, Friday meetings were the least likely to be productive. On a normal Friday night, by seven o’clock Bahorel, Bousset and Courfeyrac had begun drinking in earnest and Grantaire had been spouting complete nonsense for hours already. Combeferre came from a six-hour shift at the Necker, sometimes with assorted bodily fluids flecked on his shirt sleeves and always in poor temper. Jehan had a meeting of his secret literary society (he refused to compromise the secrecy by revealing details but did hint that it involved black candles and a stolen chicken) at nine and often rushed out to get there early. Half the time Feuilly just didn’t come, instead choosing to spend his evening courting grisettes at a local dance hall, his one experience of adolescent freedom. 

In short, there were half a dozen reasons why meeting on Friday was ill-advised and Enjolras refused to listen to any of them. 

It was one such a night in crisp September. Bousset was falling asleep into a pile of pamphlets while Jehan absent-mindedly doodled skeletons on the back of a failed law exam. Joly occasionally labeled a bone or ligature while sneaking sips of brandy under the table with Bahorel.

Enjolras talked excitedly about tax reform, his voice getting higher and higher as he become more and more excited by his own fervor. His brow was wet with zealous sweat and he seemed completely unaware of the fact that no one was paying attention to what he was saying. Combeferre appeared to, nodding in the right places, but he was tapping his fingers on his knees, clearly waiting for a chance to run out of the Musain.

“Will we live in chains? Will we allow our brothers and sisters, good citizens of France to become swallowed by this tyrannical government that denies them the dignity inherent in every human being?” Enjolras asked the bored assembly, pounding his fist and making a very aged table creak worryingly. 

“No, we will not!” Grantaire called from the corner. He had no idea what was being said but being very drunk was susceptible to any strong feeling. 

“Hear, hear!” Courfeyrac added. He was not _as_ drunk as Grantaire but was eager to leave and join Feuilly at the dance hall.  

Enjolras, satisfied with the reaction, breathed deeply and sank into a chair. He seemed to deflate as the revolutionary spirit left him. Immediately, Joly and Bahorel stood up and left to go to the front room of the Musain, where alcohol was more readily available. Bousset woke up with a start and after looking around confusedly for a few moments, moved to join them.

Courfeyrac had managed to put on his coat and hat in roughly fifteen seconds and was whistling as he walked to the door. Feuilly, however prickly he seemed in meetings, was a rather good drinking buddy. 

“Courfeyrac! May I speak with you?”

Groaning, Courfeyrac turned around to face Combeferre, ready to be brought into some secret mission that needed immediate attention. Perhaps he’d be passing out copies of _The Social Contract_ in the slums again, nearly getting concussed as illiterate men tired of being condescended to threw the books at his head. Or maybe he’d be carrying illegal packages halfway around the city, ruining his new boots in the process. 

“Can it be done tomorrow?” 

Combeferre frowned and pushed his glasses up his nose. Courfeyrac noted that his sleeves were clean of blood.

“It’s nothing to do with the ABC. This is… rather of a personal nature,” Combeferre half-whispered, a furious scarlet blush forming on his cheekbones.

“Whatever is it?” Courfeyrac asked excitedly. Combeferre rarely appeared to have a personal life of any sort, outside of Enjolras and books by men long dead. The idea of Combeferre getting himself into the petty dramas that dominated Courfeyrac’s life was laughable and in fact, Courfeyrac stifled a giggle. 

“I… _What do you know about women’s clothing?_ ” Combeferre said so softly Courfeyrac had to lean closer to hear it. When he did hear it, his restraint loosened by wine, he was unable to control his wobbly smile. 

“I’m sorry! I mean no disrespect. I believe in your liberty to whatever pleases you. I just never thought you would be the one," Courfeyrac laughed good-naturedly, patting his friend on the back. 

Now Combeferre’s entire face became so red Courfeyrac had a vague, drunken fear he’d explode.

“Not for me! I overturned an inkwell on a dress of my mistress’s last night. She’s rather poor, but proud and she’d never let me know how sorely she felt the loss of a single dress. Still, I’d like to replace it but I don’t know the first thing about fashion,” Combeferre cried without taking a breath, his usually serene gray eyes flashing wildly. 

Courfeyrac stopped laughing. Firstly, he had no idea Combeferre had a mistress, previously assuming the man to be a virgin. Secondly, he wanted to know what on earth the two had been doing that involved an inkwell. Thirdly, he was touched at his friend’s thoughtfulness and swelled with pride.

“I’d be honored to help you! Be it for your mistress or you, I make no judgment! Though, if it is for you, tell me now because your complexion would suit an emerald gown beautifully.”

Courfeyrac waited to be slapped and instead was greeted with a shy smile. Combeferre was an odd one. He had a mistress but never spoke of her and where other men would have been offended, he seemed pleased.

“If you have no other plans, may we go tonight?” Combeferre asked, a strain of nervousness creeping into his voice that Courfeyrac was used to hearing at the end of the quarter.

He remembered Feuilly and the buxom grisettes he had imagined for himself. 

“Get your coat on. I know just the place.”

 

* * *

  

In fact, Courfeyrac knew of several Paris boutiques. He often accompanied his sister on her shopping excursions and regardless, had an interest in fashion of all kinds, for men and women.

The first store he tried was closed. On the way to the second they found Grantaire and the three of them had a few drink before splitting ways. Then Courfeyrac saw one of his law school friends, an awkward boy with a hideous waistcoat. Courfeyrac insisted he buy the man a drink, which turned into several and by the time they reached the second shop, Marius Pontmercy in tow, all three were very drunk.

Stepping into the shop, Combeferre had a vague sensation of being suffocated in silk. Every available surface was covered with fabric and in every corner stood a mannequin fully dressed. Marius sniffed and eyed the layer of dust covering the floor while Courfeyrac pushed ahead like a conquerer surveying his newly won land. 

In the back an old woman puttered around with a rather hideous bonnet she was seemingly attacking with ribbon. 

“Tell me about this girl… Is she fair? Dark?” Courfeyrac said, perhaps louder than necessary, traipsing through the aisles with ease.  

“She has the most wonderful brown hair and her eyes are such a shocking blue. Like the ocean or the sky!” Marius cried proudly. Courfeyrac mimed hitting himself in the head.

“Not you! Combeferre!”

Combeferre paused, his natural reserve intensified by liquor.

“She’s fair with very straight, brownish-yellow sort of hair and light eyes. They’re sort of watery. She’s tall, almost as tall as you, Pontmercy, and thin.”

Courfeyrac looked annoyed.

“That’s it? Listen to Marius! _He_ speaks like a man in love.”

Combeferre shrugged and turned to examine burgundy brocade. Marius found a poke bonnet in a pile of linens and tried it on.

“She’s terribly well-spoken. Sometimes when she speaks I have to look up the words she uses in a dictionary afterwards," Combeferre said absently. 

“How romantic,” Courfeyrac muttered. 

“They do sound perfect for each other,” Marius offered. He had abandoned the poke bonnet and was now draping himself in black silk in a makeshift toga. The old shopkeeper ignored their antics, still focused on making an ugly hat even uglier.

“As much as it pains me to say so, yes. If she’s fair, perhaps something light would suit her,” Courfeyrac said. He pulled a pale pink dress towards them, smiling at his find.

“I can’t picture Jeanne in it. It looks like something my youngest sister would wear,” Combeferre said lamely.

“She _has_ a name!” Marius cried as he dropped the silk onto the floor.

“Your sister is a perfectly lovely woman and I don’t know why you wouldn’t want this _Jeanne_ , the beautiful object of your affection, to look like her!” Courfeyrac screeched. Combeferre raised an eyebrow.

“I did _not_ mean to phrase it like that. Anyway, what colors does she prefer? What colors do _you_ prefer on her?” Courfeyrac said, dragging Marius away from the bolts of fabric before he did any permanent damage. The younger man was seemingly drunk for the first time and wasn't handling his newfound intoxication with grace.

“I… I do like the way she looks in fabric with flowers woven into it,” Combeferre said bashfully, as if admitting a preference compromised his intellectual dignity.

“Floral is very popular this season! You’re quite in fashion, Combeferre! Bravo!” Courfeyrac cried, immediately scooping up a bonnet accented with fabric roses.

With some deliberation they found a dress covered in little orchids that Combeferre thought would fit the mysterious Jeanne. It was perhaps a little plain for Courfeyrac’s taste but it was surprisingly well made considering the general mess of the store and Combeferre found he could afford it without sacrificing too many meals out.

They paid and walked out in good spirits. Combeferre clutched the white box proudly. Feeling accomplished, he had begun to loosen his normally tightly coiled demeanor, becoming the jovial young man Courfeyrac loved. Even Marius seemed happy, though he kept tripping over his own feet. 

“And now I’ve promised Enjolras I’ll lend him my history of America,” Combeferre said as they came to a fork in the road. Marius seemed ready to keep walking into the brick wall directly in front of him. Courfeyrac grabbed him by the sleeve and turned, furious, to Combeferre.

“After the service I rendered you! The least you could do is come with me to have the sleeves trimmed. I do believe they could use a touch of lace. Besides, I’m going to meet Feuilly and he’d love to see you.”

Combeferre muttered excuses about Enjolras before finally relenting.

“Only for the lace and then I’m going home.”

Courfeyrac agreed and off they went. Somehow they managed to stop in front of Courfeyrac’s favorite café, which was only _too_ fortuitous and _of course_ called for a drink. As it was, Courfeyrac’s ex-mistress was there and after a few glares she settled happily on his lap. Marius slunk off to a group of students he knew from childhood and Combeferre, trying not to watch Courfeyrac have his neck nibbled, was starting to feel lonely. The white package began to feel immensely heavy in his hands and he decided, Courfeyrac or not, he’d go get the lace and then go find Jeanne. It was nearly midnight and he was tired anyway.

Finishing his brandy and trying not to make a face as the alcohol burned his throat, Combeferre stood up and slunk out the door. If Courfeyrac noticed, he gave no indication.

The night air was cool on Combeferre’s curiously warm face and he felt better immediately. Jeanne would adore the dress. She’d be pleased she might even do that thing with her mouth he so liked (Combeferre blushed just thinking about it).

He imagined in detail, the whole scene where he presented her with the package, the way he imagined the human body for his exams. He focused on her radiant face, overcome with joy as she clasped the fabric.

In fact, Combeferre pictured it so vividly that when he opened his eyes, he had absolutely no idea where he was. 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Seeing as it figures so prominently, this (http://omgthatdress.tumblr.com/post/19630566291/dress-1830s-augusta-auctions) is the dress Combeferre buys for Jeanne. It's a very generous gift for a grisette, but I guess you have to expect extravagance when Courfeyrac's involved.  
> 2\. At risk of having to retract it later, I believe this story takes place in 1830.  
> 3\. Reviews make my heart burst like the music of angels, the light of the sun.


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